


Ending 3.5: Twist

by amporasbitch



Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: A Date With Markiplier, Descent into Madness, F/M, Not really sure how else to tag this lmao, Paranoia, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amporasbitch/pseuds/amporasbitch
Summary: You couldn't ask for a better boyfriend than Mark, but what happened on that first date follows you around like a shadow. What really happened that day? Who can you really trust?Eventually, something has to give.





	Ending 3.5: Twist

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago, and I posted it on Tumblr months ago, but I wanted to cross-post it here since I'm still really proud of it.
> 
> (And for all those wondering, yes, I'm still working on WERIH, don't worry! Next chapter might be a while longer yet, so please bear with me! ;w; Also, this story does not take place in the same universe as WERIH, which probably goes without saying, but I figured I'd mention it.)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this story!

After the disastrous first date, you wanted to give him another chance. Most of the date before _that_ had gone fine, and he seemed to mean well despite everything. The second date went much better, and led to third, and a fourth. The two of you made the decision to be exclusive shortly after. You, of course, hadn’t been seeing anyone else anyway. Why would you?

In all categories, Mark is perfect.

You can’t remember ever knowing someone so handsome, funny, and unabashedly kind. He has a zest for life that colors the air surrounding him, a gratefulness for the opportunities he’s been given that rubs off on everyone near him. Even you, when you’re with him, feel that happy energy coursing through your veins, that desire to make the most of life. Mark’s one flaw, if one can call it that, is that he can’t stop working. He always seems to be knee-deep in a dozen projects at once. It means that, as much as he likes you, he hasn’t been able to spend that much time with you at all. You’ve doubtlessly spent more time watching his videos than interacting with him in person. It means that, more often than not, you’re alone. Mark hates to tell you no, but what can he do? It’s enough that he feels bad about the situation, and you could never ask him to give up the projects he so loves to work on.

Besides, it’s not as if he knows what you think about when you’re alone.

_That_ plays over and over again in your mind. No matter how many times you turn it around, searching for meaning in its angles, you can’t make sense of it. You can’t make peace with it. The thoughts are unceasing, manifesting in the disconcerted voice in the back of your head.

_Isn’t this too good to be true?_

You tried to forget that void space, the coldness that pressed around you. There seemed to be no air at all, yet still you breathed, and your heart still beat. It was dark, darker than night, darker than ink, darker than the space behind closed eyes.

And _he_ was there.

_What if_ he’s _still out there?_

He looked like Mark, but the moment you laid eyes on him you knew he was something else. There was a _wrongness_ to him. His voice was loud and deep, but garbled, reverberating somehow in that place with no walls. Cold lights, reds and blues, danced around his outlines. He seemed to corrupt the very space in which he stood, sending stripes of static across your vision as he spoke.

_What if it’s all a lie?_

You could understand his words, but you couldn’t comprehend their meaning. It made very little sense to you. It all alluded to some long-standing conflict he intended to resolve at any cost, a conflict that you were now a part of. He knew Mark, somehow. Of course he did, he looked just like him. But he hated Mark, that much was clear, even if he didn’t directly say so. His very presence seemed to you the antithesis of Mark’s existence. Mark lives to create, to bring joy, to give, to laugh, to brighten people’s days. The being that faced you in the void wanted to destroy, kill, take. He had his own agenda, his own motives, and he would do anything to anyone for his own selfish ends. He spoke like he knew you, too. As imposing as he was, he made himself suave, seductive, tempting. Your instincts screamed not to trust him. But what could you do? You were in his domain. When he gave you those four choices, you sensed a trap, but there was nothing else to be done.

_Are you really free?_

Sure enough, he really only gave you one choice. All but the last led to dead ends in that strange void, sending you back to him each time. He did not laugh, he barely smiled, but you sensed his bitter enjoyment of your desperation. He needed or wanted you for something, and he knew how to get you. When you chose freedom, the choice he knew you’d make, he became erratic. He growled, roared about his power, about his ability to give you whatever you desired. The angrier he got the more transparent his motives became. He threatened death, ensnarement, the gutting of your very existence and the destruction of everything you were. The void screamed back at him, anguished sound waves cutting off the moment they reached your ears. He could have killed you right there if he so desired, ripping your body apart or trapping you in that void forever.

_What really happened?_

He hadn’t expected Mark to show up.

Neither had you, but just like that, the void fell away and you were back in reality. Here, the other Mark looked identical to the real one. It momentarily shocked you; in the void _he_ barely seemed human. Yet suddenly he was struggling against Mark in an evenly-matched wrestling bout. When the bags came out, it made it even harder to make heads or tails of the situation. You could have laughed if you hadn’t already encountered _him_. You tried to keep track of which one was which, but even in the real word, that visual glitching didn’t stop. You weren’t even sure which Mark pulled out the gun. No matter how many times you rethink the sequence of events, that never becomes clear.

You just remember being terrified when the gun slid out of his ( _his?_ ) grip and landed at your feet.

_Did you make the right choice?_

They split apart from each other, pulled the bags off their heads, and pointed fingers. They looked the same. They sounded the same. Their mannerisms were the same. They were identical. It unnerved you, drove you to despair over how clearly not-Mark _he_ had been just moments before, and now it was impossible to tell _him_ from the real man. You wonder if the other Mark had planned for this all along. If this was the trap he wanted to put you in. It was as if he was taunting you: You wanted freedom, didn’t you? Here’s your freedom. Make your choice.

So many false choices. So many dead ends. The gun trembled in your hand. You pointed it at one, the other. They reacted the same. It was driving you mad. You couldn’t just stand there pointing the gun forever. What could you do? You had to do it. You had to pull the trigger.

_Who did you murder?_

The gunshot was loud, the recoil put an ache in your arms. You could just barely hear the sound of the bullet punching through skin and muscle. The Mark you shot grunted in pain and collapsed. There were no last words, no death speech. Just a sickening, bloody gurgle. The Mark you spared went right to you, pulled you close, and tried his best to put you at ease. He reassured you that you made the right choice. He expressed his concern for you regarding what you’d just had to do. He even managed to get you ice cream, despite having no money (to think you had assumed that that earlier part of the date would end up being the worst of it). It seemed to be working, every second that passed made you feel more secure. How could that evil creature you encountered in the void ever fake being so kind?

But then as you looked down at your ice cream, the world grew darker. Red and blue outlines appeared around your bowl. You were beset by a silence so acute that it caused a rumbling, breathless sensation in your ears. The pressing, crushing cold returned.

You escaped the void only for it to bring itself back to you.

When you slowly looked back up, afraid of what you might see, the void faded away as quickly as it came. You and Mark talked, finished your ice cream, and then he drove you home. He seemed to know better than to prolong the date after what you just went through. But as he walked you to your doorstep, he truly seemed to feel bad about it had gone. He hoped for another chance, but understood if you didn’t want to give it. It was what made you decide to call him the next day. It helped you enjoy the second date. And the third. And the fourth. His sweet and sincere nature led you to the path you’re on now.

It led you to these circular thoughts.

_If you made the right choice, why do you feel like this?_

You could have forgotten, or at least ignored, that moment the void wrapped around you after you sat down with your ice cream. But it kept happening, again and again. Sometimes it was like the first time, where time slowed down and the void slipped around you as easy as water. Sometimes the air flashed with static and the darkness and cold fell upon you in an instant, before another glitch wiped it away as fast as it came. Either way, it always lasted for a short time, mere seconds, and it never seemed to happened more than once or twice in a day. It always left you shaken and unnerved for many minutes after.

Most importantly, it only happened when you were with Mark.

It caused a stew of conflicting feelings every time he invited you to hang out with him, or he accepted an invitation to hang out with you. You were always happy to see him, but always dreading those moments of darkness. To his credit, he at least noticed the change in your expression after it happened. You always told him you were fine, of course. What could you do? You didn’t want to worry him, and besides, you couldn’t exactly tell him what was really troubling you.

You did try to talk about what happened with him, to ask him about the other Mark and what history _he_ had alluded to. But each time you brought it up he dodged your questions and changed the subject quickly. You realize that it might just be that he doesn’t even want to think about it, much less talk about it. That much you could understand. You don’t want to be suspicious of Mark, a man more genuine than anyone you’ve ever known, but you can’t help it. Every time you mentioned it, he gave off the impression that he did know that other Mark, but didn’t want to tell you about _him_. It was frustrating. It was unnerving. You stopped asking. Not just asking Mark, but asking in general. There was no way you could tell anyone else what happened, they’d throw you in a mental hospital for sure. It was something that an outsider could never believe or begin to understand.

You have no one to discuss that event with except the voice in the back of your head.

And it never quiets.

_Which Mark is which? (Mark is Mark, and_ he _is the other.) Where is the other Mark now? (In the void.) Where is the void? (Somewhere else.) Is it here? (Sometimes.) Is he here? (I think so.) Is_ he _here? (No.) How do you know? (I don’t know.) Did you kill him? (I didn’t—) Did you kill_ him _? (I don’t think anyone could.) What are you afraid of? (Him.) Which him? (Both.) Can_ he _pretend to be nice? (Maybe.) Is_ he _faking these feelings? (He would be…he is.) Are you already alone? (I was always alone.) Is he already dead? (Maybe, yes.) What have you done? (I killed him.) Which him? (HIM.) How do you know? (I don’t know anything.) Are you sure? (Yes.) Are you sure? (No…) Are you sure? (I’m—) Are you sure are you sure are you sure are you sure are you (I don’t know!) What is it that you do know? (I can’t take this anymore!)_

_What can you do?_

You still have the gun.

You were too shell-shocked after the incident to put it down. When you got home, you saw it still in your hand. It must not have belonged to Mark after all; he never asked for it back. You would’ve thought you’d wanted to throw it out, but somehow that felt wrong. It’s as if the gun became a talisman of sorts, something to protect you rather than to kill others. You kept it in a drawer on your nightstand. You didn’t touch it for a long time, until this morning, when you picked it up and wondered if it’s even still usable.

You travel to Mark’s house. He invited you there, he said it could just be the two of you. Normally there was at least one other person in the house, but not now.

You walk inside. Chica greets you first, exuberantly running towards you and jumping. You pet her on autopilot as you walk inside. Mark calls from another room. Chica dashes forward towards his voice, and you follow much more slowly.

You walk into the room. You see Mark. He sees you. Chica jumps around between the two of you. Mark greets you, asks you what’s wrong, you don’t look so good. He sees the gun just before you lift it.

You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve seen him afraid before, you’ve seen him shriek and swear at jumpscares in the horror games he plays. You’ve never seen him terrified. He can hardly talk for fear, but he tries, tries to tell you to put the gun down and tell him what’s wrong. He’s rambling, voice choking off at random intervals, cracking in terror. Almost warped, almost garbled. He’s asking you to trust him, asking you not to do this, telling you there’s other ways to deal with whatever’s wrong. He wants to know what’s wrong, just tell him what’s wrong. He might start crying. Chica senses her owner’s distress and circles along the floor, looking up at Mark, whining and whimpering.

You could laugh at Mark’s words. He won’t want to listen to what’s wrong. He didn’t want to hear about it before, he won’t want to talk about it now. You can’t trust him anymore. You never trusted him at all. You killed the real him months ago. It’s too late.

It’s too late.

What can you do?

You pull the trigger.

The gunshot is impossibly loud, louder than the first time, echoing off the walls of the room. You fall to your knees from the effort. Chica yelps and runs off, you hear her claws scrabbling up the stairs. Mark gasps, grabs at his chest. His legs give out from under him, his upper body falls forward. Red seeps through his shirt, into his fingers as they clench the fabric. The bullet rests below his hand, you don’t know how much deeper it goes. He doesn’t gurgle like the first Mark. He wheezes, sighs. His body tenses for one brief moment.

When it loosens, you know he’s gone.

_Are you free?_

Of course. You must be. You killed _him._ You killed him, too, months ago. You can’t change that. Mark was always dead. But you’re free. You could cry, you’re _free._

_Are you sure?_

Blood is still flowing, creeping away from Mark along the floor. You hadn’t stuck around the real Mark’s corpse long enough to see what happened.

_Did you look back?_

Did you? Possibly? Maybe? What you saw, you saw him on the ground. You saw, you heard the gurgle. It sounded like blood. You saw…you saw…

_What did you see?_

What didn’t you see?

Blood.

There was no blood.

The real Mark hadn’t bled.

But that’s…that’s not…

_What do you see now?_

The void is coming back. You killed _him_ , but it’s coming back. It’s not like before. It swims into the edges of your peripherals, creeps along the floor until the deep black touches the bloody red. It goes no further. The field of reality begins to shrink, to narrow, folding back towards you. It gets smaller. The light dims, but doesn’t disappear. Something is stopping the void from coming on completely. It stops along Mark, along the pool of blood, along the space of the floor from him to you. From him? From _him_?

_Which him?_

You know he’s behind you even before he puts his hands on your shoulders, hands rough and cold.

“O ** ~~o~~** _ ~~p~~_ ~~s.~~ ” ~~~~

You’re pretty sure you’re crying now, but you’re too numb to be certain.

“ **H ~~o~~** ~~w~~ un _f **o ~~r~~**_ ~~tu _n **a**_ **t**~~ **e** ,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “ _It **loo**_ ** ~~ks li~~** _ ~~ke~~_ ~~y **ou** ~~**_mad_ e ~~th~~** ~~e w~~ ** _r_** _ong_ **c ~~ho~~** ~~i~~ _ce_.”

You can’t speak. You can hardly see. The room is so dark, even with the red and blue outlining the pool of blood on the floor. The pool has stopped growing. Mark’s body is hunched over from falling on his knees. The hand he didn’t grab his chest with lays open and stiff, palm-down, on the floor beside him. His hair has fallen in such a way that you can still see one eye, big and brown and cloudy with death. His eye is wide and unseeing, yet accusingly staring into your own.

He loved you. He _loved_ you.

You hate yourself.

“ **Yo _u ~~ne~~_** _ ~~ver **c**~~_ ** ~~ou~~ l _d_ h** ave w _on_.” The other Mark leans even closer, head hovering over yours, yet there’s no breath in your hair. “ ~~Yo _u_ _sh_ **o**~~ **uld** have **_~~kn~~_ ~~ow _n f_ ro~~**m the _m ~~o~~ m **e**_ **nt** ~~y _ou_ ’d me **t** me t~~ h _at_ y ~~o **u**~~ **were** _~~in a **l**~~_ ** ~~osin~~** g ga _m_ ~~e~~.”

He’s right. You knew that all along. You hadn’t had a moment of peace since that first time the void closed in on you on that first date. If only, if only…

He sighs, almost growls, in your ear:

“ ** ~~W _h_ at co~~u _ld yo_** _u_ ~~ha _ve_ **d** o~~n _e_?”

He answers his own question.

“ ** _ ~~Absolutely nothing~~_**.”

He laughs, for the first time since you’ve known him. It’s deep, harsh, even more unsettling and glitchy than his speaking voice. He laughs at you, and at Mark, the one you know he really wanted to hurt. You were merely a means to an end, just as you thought in the beginning. But to what end?

If it were over, he wouldn’t still be here.

“ ~~W~~ **e _l_** l,” he says, still quiet and sinister, “I **ga _v_** _e_ _~~you a~~_ ~~n op **ti**~~ **on _._** _I ga ~~ve y~~_ ~~o~~ u a **c** ~~h~~ oi ** ~~ce. I~~ hop**e y _ou_ ’re ~~gr **a**~~ **t** ef _ul_ , **_I ~~h~~_** _ ~~e **si**~~_ ** ~~tate~~** ~~t~~ o **g _iv_** _e_ ev ** ~~e~~** _ ~~n~~ that_ **mu ~~c~~** h.” You can feel his eyes on you more acutely than ever. “ **T ~~h~~ is _~~is~~_** _ ~~w~~_ ~~ha~~ _t_ yo **u** ~~c _ho_~~ se.”

It is what you chose. Even if the game was rigged from the start, this is what you chose.

“ _Say ~~t **he** w~~_ ~~o~~ r **d, _and_** _I_ ~~ca **n** m _ak_~~ ** _e_ you _r_** _ ~~gr~~_ ~~ief **di _sa_** _p_ pe~~ **a _r_.** ” His voice is low still, but a different kind of low. It’s smoother, seductive. “ ** ~~D~~** ~~o _yo_~~ _u re_ m **e ~~m _be_~~ _r_** _~~wh~~_ ~~at~~ **I t _old y_ ~~o~~** ~~u~~?”

You can’t speak. You don’t speak.

“ _D **o** y ~~o~~_ ~~u re **me**~~ ** _m_** _be ~~r~~_?” He asks again, voice tighter this time.

“You…” You shudder. “You can give me anything.”

His hands tighten on your shoulders. You can practically feel his wicked grin.

“ **S** _o_ ,” he says, “ ~~L **e**~~ **t _me_** _gi_ ~~v **e**~~.”

You aren’t fooled. He _can_ give you anything, but he only wants to take. He’ll give you death, he’ll give you endless torment. He’ll take away your grief by wiping you away from existence. If killing Mark was his first goal, taking you is his second. If you agree to his terms, he’ll swallow you up like the darkness he lives in, leaving you forever cold and breathless, trapped, listening to the void scream.

But what’s the alternative? Living the rest of your life knowing what you’ve done? Going on each day knowing you sabotaged yourself and destroyed the best thing you ever had? Suffering through each day watching millions of people mourn, knowing it’s your fault that they all cry? Looking Mark’s friends in the face, even if from across a courtroom, watching them realize what you took from them? You can hardly bear your own suffering; how can you bear the suffering of millions of others? How can you take responsibility?

You can’t. You never can. Nothing will change what you’ve done. After everything, you’re everything he wasn’t. You’re a coward. You can’t live with this. You know you can’t.

What, oh _what_ , can you do?

The void doesn’t care what you’ve done. It will treat you the same as it would anyone else.

“Okay.” You make yourself tilt your head up, meeting the man’s eyes. They’re much darker in color than Mark’s, much colder. “Okay, give to me.”

His grin, though wide and sharp, barely reaches his piercing eyes. His hands move from your shoulders, up your neck (you can feel the strength in them, like he could snap your neck if he had the inclination), and rest on your face. His hands are loose, but you know he’ll hold you in place if you try to turn away.

So you don’t. You stare back at him, your eyes meeting his. As intimate as the pose is, tension is palpable in your bloodstream. You feel like a rabbit staring up at a wolf. You know you’ll meet the same end. But a moment passes, then another, and the choice you’ve made settles within you. You’re still afraid, you’re still in anguish, but you’ve accepted your fate.

This is the best way.

This is the only way.

What else can you do?

He seems to sense your resignation.

“ _ ~~Ar~~_ ~~e **y**~~ **o _u_ _r_** _ ~~ea~~_ d **y**?” he asks. The void grows more acute, drowning out Mark and his blood in inky black. Despite the question, you know the time for choice has come and gone. There’s only one thing you can say.

“Yes.”

“ ** _ ~~Excellent.~~_** ”

As the darkness consumes you both, one last thought scampers through your mind:

_Why didn’t I realize that the voice in the back of my head didn’t sound like me?_


End file.
